


The Bicentennial

by the_glow_worm



Series: Two Hundred Years Later [1]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: after the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_glow_worm/pseuds/the_glow_worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Temeraire finds that the present is a foreign country. Set two hundred years after the events of the novels</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bicentennial

He dreamed, as he usually did, of Laurence.

 

They were flying together over the wide, wide ocean. There was nothing and no one else in sight, not even schools of fish racing beneath the water; thermals rose below his wings and lifted him up into the sunlight. The day was as bright and gleaming as a new coin. The two of them were alone together in the empty world, and everything was exactly as it should be.

 

And then the wind blew cold, suddenly; the sun had slipped behind a great rolling thundercloud. Temeraire tumbled before the storm, pelted harshly by rain. He twisted about to see Laurence, to make sure he was well, but Laurence was—he was—

 

Laurence was gone, exactly as if he never was.

 

With a start Temeraire woke. The sun in his pavilion threw stubby shadows across the textured marble of his floor. Out of the open gates he could see the Blue Mountains, misty with distance, and the sprawling view of his valley. Slowly he roused himself, furling his wings in and out for exercise. They were not so nimble as they used to be, and he thought wistfully of a long day’s flying, such as he had not had for years now. The doctors that he kept on payroll _would_ advise him to avoid long flights, however, which was very irritating. It was all well and good that they allowed dragons to be doctors now, but he could not help a long-standing belief that doctors anywhere could not possibly know as much as they pretended to. He crept from his sleeping chamber into the main room of the pavilion.

 

The centerpiece of the room was an enormous screen, stretching almost the length of Temeraire’s own tail. He had been enthusiastic for the thing when he had bought it, of course—such a clever improvement to the older models he had helped invent, and never quite felt satisfied with—but of late it had begun to only feel like another hindrance. A month-old notification flashed upon the screen; some bicentennial or another, where they hoped to honor him and Laurence. Temeraire had only to touch it with his nose to make it go away, but instead he only stood and stared dully at it. Had it truly been so long?

 

Temeraire paced out of the room again, suddenly restless. He stopped at the well-worn threshold of his listening room. Elena had given it as her opinion, in the explosive way that she could sometimes get, that he had been spending too much time there; the memory of their argument made his foot waver at the entrance. Yet Elena was rarely seen without her earphones herself, he remembered indignantly, so it was not as if she had much ground to stand upon. Temeraire entered the room.

 

Perscitia had devised a marvelous invention, some time ago during one of her many experiments with sound; a speaking-journal of sorts, which one could talk into and play back at any time, infinitely, whenever one wished. It was tremendously clever, of course, but Temeraire had been surprised with how fervently attached Laurence had become to it; he had even taken to recording himself reading the dear old _Principia Mathematica_ along with many others; the tales of Oriental dragons that had been his gift from Sir Howe, years ago, mathematical treatises and the proceedings from the Royal Society, even the Chinese poetry. Temeraire had not given it much thought at the time. Laurence had been feeling a little poorly then, but that was nothing to signify, at all; he saw no reason why either of them should worry.

 

Only a few months later, Temeraire had finally understood his purpose.

 

Now he had a veritable hoard of recordings at his disposal, of all his favorite books and treatises; Laurence’s last gift. He mulled over _Persuasion_ —he did dearly enjoy Austen—but then there was this book of poesy from his second hatchling, who had turned out to have a lyrical flair—he had found _Frankenstein_ sadly long-winded, but he supposed doubtfully that it might be worth a revisit…

 

He had not read a new book in some time. There was not much pleasure in it, when he could not hear Laurence reading it aloud.

 

Eventually he settled for dear old _Principia Mathematica_ , which had been played so often that it stood in pride of place directly next to the old record player; Temeraire had not been able to bear being parted from the records long enough to have them digitized. He curled comfortably among the specially designed cushions placed in this room for this purpose, closed his eyes, and listened.

 

They had left off last week in the third volume. It had always been Temeraire’s favorite, with its talk of the orbits of moons and planets. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that the laws that underpinned the world also underpinned the greater universe; a sense of the natural order that held matter and existence together.

 

But for all the magnificent equations that explained it, somehow gravity itself had always seemed such a theoretical thing to him. He had only ever to spread his wings and leap in order to escape its pull, anytime he wished. Yet lately he felt it as he never had before, his own weight and that of over two hundred years of life pulling down on him. Satellites in orbit travelled in a stationary circle, passing the same point again and again, and yet they were also in constant freefall towards the earth. Falling without moving; Temeraire knew how that felt.

 

Laurence’s voice read on. Temeraire sighed out gustily and tried to relax into the sound. He was sure that Laurence would not have approved of such thoughts.

 

“…either is at rest,” continued Laurence, soothingly, “or moves uniformly f-f-forward-d-d-d-d—”

 

Temeraire sat up straight, his claws digging into stone.

 

 _Principia Mathematica_ was stuck. Laurence’s voice repeated and stuttered on the same sounds, over and over again, almost like—Temeraire had not forgotten, had never forgotten, how Laurence had stuttered almost too much to be able to speak, near the end, so much pain had he been in. And it was repeating again around him; he backed away, but there was no escape. Temeraire roared to block out the noise.

 

It was a relief to find himself suddenly outside, even amidst a pile of unpleasantly prickly splinters. The sun was beating down, and the breeze had picked up. If he closed his eyes he could imagine—

 

“Temeraire, Temeraire! What were you thinking?” Elena Ferris, ashen-faced, came stumbling through the splinters towards his head. “Oh my god, Temeraire, are you okay? Should I call someone? Oh crap, where’s my cell—”

 

“No,” he said sharply. These younger generations of men were always trying to call someone. “There’s no need. Why, I am not at all hurt.”

 

“Are you sure?” asked Elena anxiously. “Maybe you should wait for the doctors to get here. Just in case, you know?” She stroked his nose. Temeraire very nearly submitted to the soothing touch and the worry in her voice.

 

Instead he reared up to all fours, spreading his wings to the sky. Splinters and bricks rained off him, although he was careful to shield Elena from them.

 

“No,” he said. “No, I shall not wait here any longer.” And so saying, he flung himself into the sky.

 

Elena’s shouts grew small below him, and shortly his valley was rolling off behind. The Blue Mountains were fast approaching, and beyond it was the great city of Sydney. Temeraire had not realized it before, but of course it was perfectly obvious that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to attend the bicentennial after all.

 

Pumping his wings hard, he reached the thermal and soared on it for a while. A few inquisitive crows came and landed on his back, but Temeraire paid them no mind. He was trying to remember: had the invitation said whether the bicentennial was today, or rather tomorrow? And for that matter, where in Sydney was it?

 

Oh, he supposed it didn’t matter. It would hardly be difficult to ask around for directions. But he quickened his pace all the same—after all, it would not do to be late. The Blue Mountains passed rapidly below him, here and there groups of hikers looking up and waving. New South Wales had gotten extremely crowded since he and Laurence had settled here; one could hardly take a flight of any length without seeing someone. There were even a few dragons taking pleasure flights. Temeraire flew faster in hopes of avoiding recognition: nothing more awkward than being asked for a midair autograph.

 

The mountains rolled on, still almost as gorgeously ornamented with dense forests as they had been when Temeraire had first come to this country. He and Laurence had flown over them many times in the years after the war, setting down on one ridge or the other so that they could survey this land that they had adopted. He used to take the same flights with Elena, when she was younger—her scampering off into the underbrush and returning with all sorts of interesting rocks and bugs, and once to his great alarm a snake—and with a sudden jolt of surprise, he realized that he had not taken her on such a flight in a long time.

 

The mountains petered to an end, eventually giving way to neat, cultivated fields. Temeraire glided along, scanning the ground until he identified the Great Western Highway a little to his north.  It was not a very interesting flight, with only little neighborhoods of seemingly identical houses and the distant honking of cars to keep him company, but it was easy enough to follow the road. The landscape rapidly became new underneath him as he flew on. Buildings that had been mere postage stamps on the ground became topography, gaining height and dimension. He could see a strip mall perhaps half a mile over to his left: dragons flew through the upper levels, occasionally landing on special perches to peer inside of stores they found interesting. Temeraire thought of the markets in Peking with regret; he had not been able to walk through that city since the civil war, when his hatchlings all had to flee China, and even now he was not certain the ruling party there would welcome a Celestial.  He supposed he would not see Peking again before he died.

 

Buildings continued to rise tall before him; he could see a thick cluster of them downtown. He supposed the last time he had been into Sydney proper was when he had volunteered to take Elena’s class on a field trip to the opera house. Elena had been very small then; she could perch on Temeraire’s nose and still have to walk to reach his eyes. When they played hide-and-seek she would dive behind the very tip of his tail and latch on, and when he pretended to very gently lash his tail when he couldn’t find her, she would giggle, pleased with her own cleverness.

 

A pair of yellow and grey striped dragons flew directly up into his path, interrupting his pleasant memory. They were both wearing badges and bobbing their heads nervously.

 

“Excuse us, sir,” said the larger one. “Welcome to Sydney. We were instructed to bring you to the bicentennial.”

 

“Were you?” Temeraire was pleased. “Then yes, let’s be on our way. It hasn’t started yet, has it?”

 

“I’m afraid it may have,” said the smaller one, who identified himself as Hewlett Ishiguro. “We only received word that you were on your way an hour ago, you see. I believe your granddaughter called ahead.”

 

“Oh,” said Temeraire. It had not occurred to him that Elena could guess where he was going; nor, he realized belatedly, had he told her. He hesitated for a moment. “Did…did she seem upset, at all?”

 

“Ah, I’m afraid I didn’t speak with her, sir,” said Hewlett. “I only received the orders.”

 

“Oh,” said Temeraire again. Guilt struck him with great force, harsher now as if to make up for its absence earlier. He had left Elena standing alone in the rubble of his listening room, with no idea where he was going or why, not even a word of explanation to tide her over. He could not go haring off wildly as if he was a young dragon—after all, he had responsibilities now, and had them ever since Thomas and Anika Ferris had died eleven years ago. His ruff drooped slowly as the shame washed over him. And worst of all—

 

“We’re here,” announced Hewlett. “The bicentennial celebration of your and Sir William Laurence’s arrival in Sydney.”

 

—worst of all, he knew what Laurence would have said.

 

There was an enormous crowd gathered on what he faintly recognized as the former covert grounds. They let loose with thunderous applause as Temeraire set down in the very front, near the stage. The area had obviously been hastily cleared for him, the other seated participants looking somewhat cramped in the remaining space. The speaker took the moment to announce him as “—ladies and gentlemen—the guest of honor—Temeraire himself!” which set off another burst of applause.

 

Temeraire sighed and forced himself to nod to the crowd in acknowledgement. It had been nice to be the hero at first, but recently—that was to say, for the last century or so—he had not been in any mood to be honored.

 

Laurence would have found it foolish in the extreme, he was sure. He had taken to saying, near the end, that it would have been better to be entirely forgot, as fame had brought him neither peace nor honor. Yet in this particular, Temeraire had never been able to fully agree. Peace and honor Laurence now had in surfeit. Temeraire had never set much store by either, but he could not bear that Laurence would ever be forgotten. The issue had stayed unresolved between them; it always would be, now.

 

The clapping died down, eventually, and the man at the podium began to read aloud from what was evidentially a prepared speech. He was not a compelling speaker, droning tonelessly on without apparent need for either punctuation or breath. Temeraire found his eyelids slipping, and was barely able to stifle a yawn. He shook himself fully awake in a desultory attempt to pay attention, but found himself overmastered by phrases such as “…as set down in the great classic Australian travelogues by famed writer Henry O’Dea…” and “…shall surely stand, as they have already stood, as true heroes of the world and not only of Australia, yet it is Australia where they have chosen…” After his third fruitless attempt to parse a sentence, Temeraire gave it up as a bad job and simply lowered his head down to his foreclaws.

 

Mostly he drowsed through the ceremony, not really asleep but not paying much heed either. Of course no one present had known Laurence—really known Laurence—only read of him in books. Temeraire had never considered before how little one could really know from books. He hardly noticed when the speaker changed, this time to a smallish green dragon, who then proceeded to give a lecture on Temeraire’s and Laurence’s deeds during the whole nasty business with Napoleon.

 

Temeraire roused up in the middle of it, on the verge of irritably offering a correction to her history, but then thought better of it and sank down again. It was not his burden if they got their facts wrong, as he supposed _he_ didn’t care a whit; only, he’d always thought that historians were supposed to be conscientious about that sort of thing. And it seemed perfectly strange to him that they would feel free to make statements about Temeraire’s life being consulting Temeraire himself; it was not as if they did not know where to find him. Oh, it was true, he supposed, that he had chased out the last dozen who had tried to interview him, but they would insist on asking very silly questions that anyone should know better than to bring up.

 

He settled for only muttering to himself, low enough that no one else could hear. The section of crowd nearest him suddenly broke into laughter; Temeraire wondered what they could possibly be laughing at. The thought of laughter made him irritable. The strong sense of urgency and possibility that had brought him here to Sydney was fading, leaving only an intolerable sort of greyness, and Temeraire suddenly wondered what, exactly, he was doing here.

 

Right now, Elena was wandering about the empty pavilion, a too-small figure in that huge space. He could imagine it. In his mind she was always five years old, huddled behind a pillar, not understanding where her parents were or why she was suddenly sent to live with a strange dragon that she had never met. She’d refused to come out until he’d thought to make a game of it; hide-and-seek, with Temeraire pretending to coil his entire bulk behind a vase, or a potted plant, and waiting for her to giggle. That must have felt like a long time ago to her, at only sixteen years old. Had she finally grown old enough to realize that she was always second in his life to a man long dead?

 

Polite applause filtered through his thoughts. The original speaker had taken the stage again.

 

“And now,” he said, “without further ado—our city’s tribute to Sir William Laurence.”

 

A black-shirted attendant pulled a rope, and the curtain behind the stage came down. Behind it was a statue, perhaps twenty feet tall. Temeraire surged to his feet.

 

Laurence was wearing all the medals he had ever been awarded—the Order of the Bath, the Knight of the Garter, the Knight Grand Cross of a dozen minor kingdoms. Temeraire ran a cold eye over them. Laurence had ordered them all sold, when he was alive, and the proceeds given to the poor. His face had never once betrayed any hint of contempt at the honors he had received, and he had never spoken of them except with gratitude. But he had never worn them in life.

 

His stone copy wore them proudly. His expression looked out into the crowd composedly, his mouth set in a stern line: the image of a disciplined officer. They had erased all of the smiling lines on his face. Yet for all that, it did look like Laurence. Temeraire stood nose to nose with the false statue of his captain. The crowd was silent, barely breathing, waiting to see what he would do.

 

He reached out with a claw. He touched the stone face, gently, and then with force. He pushed.

 

The statue refused to move at first, being well-cemented to the ground. The speaker on stage was beginning to exclaim in confused alarm, but Temeraire ignored him. Half-spreading his wings for balance, he pushed harder. He may not have had the strength he once had, but he had more than enough for this task.

 

The statue wobbled, and then separated from the pavement with a tremendous tearing sound. It fell with ponderous grace to the ground, where it broke. Pieces of Laurence’s legacy went rolling away on the ground, and speakers and guests of honor scrambled away from the confusion of dust and stone. Temeraire sat back with satisfaction. He was sure that his younger self would never have dared such a thing.

 

In the shocked silence that followed, Temeraire spread his wings fully and leapt in the air.

 

No one tried to stop him, and after a while he slowed, soaring on the thermal back to the Blue Mountains. The day shone like a new coin. He felt, inexplicably, somewhat good about himself. He had gone for a nice long flight, which as an added benefit would surely terrify his doctors, he had gone out on an excursion to Sydney for the first time in many years. He was sure that he had made Laurence proud.

 

Temeraire flew on, lazily. He felt a little stiff in his wing-joints, and more than a little sleepy. A furious burst of energy had gotten him to Sydney in the first place, but it seemed that he would have to take some rest on the way back home. He spiraled down to a comfortable looking spot alongside the wide river, softly mossy and green. He was not so far from one of the permanent settlements of the Wiradjuri; they had dragons of their own, now, and he had half a mind to go and find some conversation.

 

Instead he settled down quite comfortably for a nap. Perhaps, he thought, curling his head beneath his wing, he would ask Elena to read him a new book when he reached his valley again; that would suit him very well.

**Author's Note:**

> I think the next ones in this series will be a little more cheerful. Promise.


End file.
